To protect her from himself.
She was racing toward him, fast and furious, and he could not do anything but catch her, lifting her in his arms as her hands clasped his face, and she stared into his eyes. “You don’t have to do this,” she whispered, her thumbs stroking across his cheeks, leaving agonizing tracks. “You have Falconwell . . . and you have The Angel . . . and more than he could ever dream. So much more than anger and vengeance and fury. You have me.” She searched his gaze before finally saying, achingly soft, “I love you.”
He’d told himself that he did not want the words, but once said, the pleasure that coursed through him at their sound on her lips was nearly unbearable. He closed his eyes and kissed her, deep and soul-searching, wishing to remember the taste of her, the feel of her, the smell of her—of this moment—forever. When he released her lips and returned her to her feet, he took a step back, breathing deep, loving the way her beautiful blue eyes flashed when he touched her.
He had not touched her enough.
If he could go back, he would have touched her more.
I love you.
The whisper echoed through him, all temptation.
He shook his head. “You shouldn’t.”
He turned away, leaving her in the dark hallway, heading to face his past, refusing to look back. Refusing to acknowledge what he was leaving.
What he was losing.
Chapter Twenty-one
Dear M—
No. No more of this.
Unsigned
Needham Manor, January 1830
Letter destroyed
Bourne had imagined this moment hundreds of times—thousands of them.
He’d played the scene over in his mind, entering a private card room where Langford sat, alone and on edge, dwarfed by the sheer size and power of The Angel, the kingdom over which Michael reigned.
Never once, in all that time, had he imagined he would feel anything but triumph in this moment, when nine years’ worth of anger and frustration finally came to an end. But it was not triumph Michael felt as he opened the door to the luxurious private suite set far from the main floor of the club and met the emotionless gaze of his longtime enemy.
It was frustration. And anger.
For even now, nine years later, this man was still fleecing Michael. Tonight, he had robbed him of his future with his wife.
And it could not be allowed to continue.
Langford had always loomed large in his memory—bronze skin, white teeth, wide fists—the kind of man who took what he wanted without hesitation. The kind of man who ruined lives without looking back.
And nearly a decade later, Langford had not changed. He was just as healthy and hale as he’d always been, with a bit more grey hair, but the same thick neck and wide shoulders. The years had been kind to him.
Michael’s gaze flickered to the place where Langford’s left hand lay flat against the green velvet of the table. He remembered the mannerism, the way that hand would fist and knock against the wood to demand additional cards or to celebrate a win. When Michael was a young man, just learning the tables, he would watch that hand and envy its utter control.
He sat in the chair directly across from Langford and waited silently.
Langford’s fingers twitched against the baize. “I object to being forced here in the dead of night by your henchmen.”
“I did not think you would answer an invitation.”
“You were correct.” When Michael did not reply, Langford sighed. “I assume you’ve called me here to gloat about Falconwell?”
“Among other things.” Michael reached into his coat pocket, removed the evidence of Tommy’s birth, running the paper through his fingers.
“I confess, I was surprised you’d stoop to marrying the Marbury girl, even for Falconwell. She’s not exactly a prize.” He paused. “But the land was the goal, was it not? Well-done. The ends justify the means, I suppose.”
Michael’s teeth clenched at the words, so close to the way he’d described their marriage at the beginning of this journey. He hated the echo, the reminder that he was just as much of a beast as Langford.
Don’t do this. Penelope’s words echoed through him, a pleading request, and he stilled, feeling the aging edges of the paper against the pad of his thumb. You are so much more than you think. Michael turned the square of paper over in his hand, considering the words, his wife’s blue eyes pleading with him to be more. Better. Worthy.
I love you. Her last weapon against his revenge.
Curiosity made Langford impatient. “Come on, boy. What is it?”
And with the quick, curt words, Michael was twenty-one again, facing this man, wanting to crush him. Only this time, he had the power to do so. With a flick of a wrist, he let the letter fly across the table with perfect aim.
Langford captured it, unfolded, read. He did not look up. “Where did you get this?”
“You may have my lands, but you do not have my power.”
“It will ruin me.”
“That is my dearest hope.” Michael waited for the moment of victory. For surprise and regret to flash across the other man’s face before he looked up from the paper and admitted defeat. But when Langford met Michael’s gaze over the yellowed parchment, it was not defeat that shone in his eyes.
It was admiration. “How long have you been waiting for this moment?”
Michael shuttered his gaze, forcing himself to lean back in his chair, shielding his surprise. “Since you took everything from me.”
“Since you lost everything to me,” Langford corrected.
“I was a child then, with only a handful of games behind me,” Michael said, anger rising. “No longer. I know now that you pushed the game. That you threw it, let me win until it was all there in one enormous bet.”
“You think I cheated?”
Michael’s gaze did not waver. “I know you did.”
A ghost of a smile—enough to prove Michael right—crossed Langford’s lips before he returned his attention to the damning paper. “So now you know. The child was my brother’s whelp, born of a local farmer’s daughter. The woman I married was useless—large enough dowry but unable to birth a child. I paid the girl and took the child as my own. Better false heir than none at all.”
Tommy had always been different from this man, never as cool, never as calculating. Now it all made sense, and Michael found that somewhere, deep within, buried where he did not think there was emotion to be found, he felt sympathy for the boy who had once been his friend—the boy who had tried so hard to be a son to his father.
The viscount went on. “There were only a handful of people who were close enough to recognize that my wife never bred.” He lifted the note, a small smile on his lips. “I see now that even they were not to be trusted.”
“Perhaps they decided it was you who was without honor.”
One of Langford’s brows rose. “You continue to blame me?”
“You continue to deserve it.”
“Come now,” Langford scoffed. “Look around you. You built this place; you rebuilt your life, your fortunes. What would you do if you were forced to give them away? To pass them off to someone who’d never had a hand in their growth? In their success? Are you saying you would not do the very same thing I did?” The older man set the paper to the table. “It would be a lie. You have as little conscience as I, and there’s the proof.”